


do not go gentle (into that good night)

by historiologies, wonuza



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Abduction, And trust me a Lot will happen, Just a warning that rating is changing in a few chapters, Lots of Cursing, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Modern Greek Gods AU, Tags to be updated every time something happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-24 08:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12008826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historiologies/pseuds/historiologies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonuza/pseuds/wonuza
Summary: Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.- Dylan ThomasA retelling of the myth of Hades and Persephone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ACK. Oh my god. Yes, apparently this is happening. The CatBer collaboration of your nightmares. What kind of filth and wretchedness are you in for? A lot, let me tell you right now. This fic is kind of a dream for the both of us to be writing, and I guess we should just ask for your patience as we navigate the murky fields of multichapter-dom to tell it. Rest assured though, we are both fully committed to telling this story because we all deserve Hades and Persephone Soonwoo. We all do.
> 
> To my partner in writing this, Amber. ILUSM. IT'S HAPPENING.
> 
> To Soonwoonet, as always, this is for you. - Cat

_Grace_  
_Put the flowers you find in a vase_  
_If you're dead in the mind it'll brighten the place_  
_Don't let them die on the vine, it's a waste_

_Grace._

(The National, "Graceless")

\---

The bass trembles under his feet. He nods to it, peering into the entrance of the club. It’s almost insidious, the way the ground tremors with every pulse of the beat, as if the place itself somehow senses that he’s not supposed to be there. He pulls the coat around himself tightly in response. Minghao told him he didn’t have to worry, that the hexes he’d woven into the fabric of his shirt would last him at least until dawn, but that doesn’t stop Wonwoo from doing just that. He had been feeling restless lately, an unusual itch thrumming underneath his skin. Minghao had commiserated and said it was probably because he was feeling stifled, Mingyu smirked and said it was probably because he was sheltered. Neither was incorrect.

This is the first time he’s been out this late without his friends and it irritates him just how little leeway he’s granted compared to them. Knowing them, they would never have let him gone, much less alone, had they weaseled his intentions out of him, but if he had to spend another evening reading another ancient text in his fake sunroom, he would have jumped into the sea and allowed whatever random sea creature was passing by to eat him alive. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with his mother’s smothering anymore.

(Jeonghan would have snorted and said he was being dramatic again, but he didn’t have to spend most of his time locked up in a house because his mother was overprotective so screw him, really.)

Besides, he really needed a good fuck. He hadn’t gotten laid since Jeonghan’s last house party when they’d all gotten wasted on some incredibly high grade nectar Jeonghan had brought in from Olympus and he’d woken up with a hangover and some guy’s morning wood pressing into his thigh. Sadly, Wonwoo never got his name or his number, as he was too busy cursing under his breath and running out of the bed and out of the house so he could sneak into his own bed before daybreak. 

A club would suit his purpose for the night. He had a few vials of nectar in his shirt pocket, plus Minghao’s hexes, which would shield his aura so he wouldn’t be sensed. He knows there will be consequences to face when he gets home the next day but at the moment he can’t find it in himself to care; all he needs right now is to get lost.

He ducks through the tiny space between the bouncers, unseen by them and the tens of people waiting to get in. He follows the sound of the bass, noting idly how it’s gotten louder in the past minute. Tendrils of fog from the machine snake between the shadowy figures on the dance floor, and Wonwoo licks his lips, not without anxiety. A voice in his head that sounds annoyingly like Jeonghan whispers at him to relax and have fun, and he shakes his head. 

That is the intention, anyway.

He walks over to the bar and orders a scotch on the rocks. He tips one vial into the drink as he swills the glass and the liquid in it. Nectar mixes particularly smoothly with Johnnie Walker, and Wonwoo’s first swallow already has small stars blooming behind his eyelids with every blink. He tosses the whole drink back and he shudders as the nectar-infused alcohol makes its way into his system. Regular alcohol doesn’t affect a god, so he and his friends made sure they always had a few vials around. Just in case.

He calls for another and nurses the glass in his hand when it’s given to him, watches the tiny bubbles that float up to the surface as the nectar he tips in blends into the caramel colored liquid. His mother would probably be landing in Tokyo by now, or was it Myanmar this week? He couldn’t keep track of his mother’s whereabouts; she was always traveling here and there, giving talks on climate change and its effect on the agricultural produce of each country, leaving Wonwoo alone in their beautiful stone mansion by the sea with its sprawling gardens, greeneries, and centuries-old enchantments to keep him barred from leaving. 

He grimaces before bringing the glass up to his mouth for a swallow. Good thing Minghao’s taught him a trick or two.

The song that starts playing is unfamiliar, but it has a good beat, and apparently is a popular track, because the mortals around him murmur in approval when the opening chords play. Tipsiness has him wandering and wading into the sea of humanity on the dance floor, and he tilts his head up and closes his eyes as the press of human bodies surround him and swallow him whole.

Sweat makes the shirt stick to his back, and whenever he opens his mouth to inhale, the synthetic fog and the vague smell of intoxication invade his senses, but he feels alive in a way that he hasn’t felt in years. Arms snake around his neck, smooth and female. A pretty thing, petite, with short hair, smoky eyes and red-rubbed lips. She moves against him, and Wonwoo shifts around to hold her tighter, arms encircling her waist to steady. She smiles up at him, almost angelically, and he reciprocates. 

The music shifts subtly into another track, and then another, and then another. He dances with the girl a few more times, and when he loses her to the crowd, he finds himself wrapped around a boy with a beautiful face, and then later another girl with long curly hair and golden skin. He loses count after that, the bodies pressing and grinding against him losing definition as the night goes on. He tosses back a few shots that are going around with an abandon that’s very nearly reckless, intent on forgetting the dawn that looms ahead of him, the hours separating them dwindling. The vials lay strewn across the dance floor, crunching under the weight of the heels they roll under, empty and consumed.

There’s a buzzing in his ears and everything stands out sharply even in the dark. Wonwoo breathes through his mouth, trying desperately not to stumble, but the pleasant tipsiness has morphed into a kind of vivid nausea, and he’s pretty sure the room is trying to spin out from under his feet. His knees threaten to give way when hands grip his waist, hold it against something solid.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears the dj say that it’s 3am. His head lolls back against someone’s shoulder, and he feels lips pressing against his ear, whispering indistinct words. Fingers clutch at his hips, and something surges through Wonwoo then, back arching away from the grip as if he were being branded, marked. He tries to turn to the stranger holding him, but the dizziness seizes him, causes him to reach out, clutch.

He exhales slowly as everything shifts to black.

\---

When Wonwoo comes to, it’s to the sensation of sand in his mouth and the feeling akin to someone taking a blunt hammer to his head and going to town. He groans, the tiniest action causing his muscles to ache.

Fuck.

He sits up gingerly, a headache pounding underneath his eyelids. Nausea rolls through him, and he clutches at the sheets beneath him to steady himself. The sheets bunch up in his fists, and it takes him awhile to realize he’s in a bed not his own.

He opens his eyes slowly. It’s dark, the curtains drawn around him heavy and weighty. Under him were covers made of crushed velvet; he couldn’t see much beyond his own nose but he’s pretty sure that these silk pajamas were not what he had worn to the club.

Panic begins to seize him, and he swallows gamely, trying not to let it get to him. He breathes in once, twice, before crawling to the edge of the bed.

The light that greets him outside the dark four poster is turned down low, almost like torch light, and silent. Wonwoo slips out of the bed and runs a hand through his hair, noting wryly that it was damp and smelling of forests. 

When you’re a child who yearns to escape as much as he does, you learn to spot all the ways to leave a room as quick as you can. As soon as his eyes adjust to the dimness of the room, he spots it: a single black door directly opposite him.

He walks over to the door, teeth gritted as he pads over the icy black marble floor with feet bare. He presses an ear against the door, but hears nothing on the other side. The door handle is obsidian black, large in his hands and heavy against his wrist. He grits his teeth and tries to maneuver the handle ajar but it does not budge in his hands. Three futile attempts later, cold sweat is running down his back and down his face. Wonwoo wipes the wetness from his brow away and sighs shakily.

He’s fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

Wonwoo slumps against the door, huffing. He closes his eyes and tries to piece together the previous night, without much success. He racks his brain for something, anything, but all he gets is the fuzzy memory of a warm, faceless procession of men and women pressed up against him at various intervals; nothing stands out, no one seems any more familiar than the rest, no detail points him in the direction of knowing where he is or how he got here.

Wouldn’t his mother be proud.

He rubs at his eyes, pressing his fingers hard against them, and he blinks through the specks it leaves in his vision when he pulls his hands away. As they clear, he surveys the room again—it seems fairly standard, if a little ostentatious; there’s a table near the wall to his right, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, all black, all very old looking. There’s no sound, and the silence is so complete it makes Wonwoo feel stifled and stuck, like there’s something pressing down on his chest and his lungs.

The longer he looks around the room, the more antsy he feels, the more noticeable the pounding in his head becomes, and he heads toward the far wall to look out a window, see if he recognizes his surroundings, but—

“Fuck me,” he says, stopping in his tracks.

No windows. Or, more accurately, three flat sheets of metal affixed to the wall where windows would be.

That makes sense, Wonwoo supposes, given that he’s apparently a captive—though he does wonder why he’s been given such a comfortable cell. Whatever the reason, with no windows, his only plan of action falls apart. It seems all he can do is wait, then, and see what happens. _If_ anything happens. He tries to remind himself that there’s no point in kidnapping someone if you just leave them alone in a fancy bedroom; for better or worse, someone will come in eventually, and then he can at least get some answers.

It’s less than comforting.

He looks around for his clothes, finding them folded neatly on a chair next to the bed. His phone rests on top of the pile, which strikes him as odd, until he picks it up and unlocks it: there’s no signal, and to make matters even more baffling, the screen goes completely haywire, flickering in and out rapidly. He sighs and tries Jeonghan’s number anyway, only to get an earful of more silence. Another minute or so passes as he changes back into his clothes (immediately he can tell they’ve been washed, which is so, so creepy,) and begins to pace. He barely gets started before the door opens.

When it does, Wonwoo can hear sounds and voices on the other side, but they end as quickly as they began. The door shuts again behind a boy who’s shorter than Wonwoo, but sturdier, and looking at him with mild curiosity. He twirls a ring of keys around his finger and Wonwoo spends a second distracted by it before the boy speaks.

“You’re awake! Good.” He shoves the keys into the pocket of a brown leather jacket that looks like it’s seen better days—not what Wonwoo expected to see, based on the room. “The boss’ll be in soon, I expect. He’s excited to say hello.” The boy flashes his teeth at Wonwoo in a smile that’s genuine, but far from comforting, and raises his eyebrows once.

Wonwoo can feel panic stirring in his stomach again, but tries his best to ignore it. “Is there a reason I’m locked in here?” He sounds much more confident than he feels.

The boy shrugs, disinterested. “Just following orders. That won’t work here,” he says as he notices the phone still clutched in Wonwoo’s hand. Where _here_ is, Wonwoo doesn’t know, and it does nothing to calm the terror beginning to nudge at the very edges of his mind. “Not that it would do you much good even if it did.”

Wonwoo takes a step toward the boy, but he doesn’t move. He takes a step to the side, which the boy matches, grinning again. Wonwoo crosses his arms and tries his best to be intimidating. “Out of my way. Now.” The boy’s laugh rings out into the room, and Wonwoo bristles.

“Good try.” He reaches up to pat Wonwoo on the shoulder, and it’s so patronizing Wonwoo wants to scream. “Anyway, my name’s Chan. His meeting should be finishing soon, but…” Chan takes a few steps backwards toward the door. “...if you need anything in the meantime, just yell. Loud as you can, mind you.” He knocks twice on the doorframe with a wink and stage whispers, “Thick walls.” He disappears through the door once more, and Wonwoo hears the scrape of a key in a lock.

Wonwoo stares after him for a second, then clenches his jaw and shakes his head slowly, exhaling in barely contained fury. He takes a few deep breaths and concentrates, trying to steady himself through his connection to the earth below him, but it only makes him feel even _less_ grounded. His head is positively splitting, and he feels _drained_ in a way that’s oddly familiar, but doesn’t make sense for being hungover, and every new development in this place just makes it worse and confuses him more. It’s almost 1pm, according to the useless flickering of his phone screen, and he wonders if he’d been slipped something other than nectar last night.

There’s another noise from the direction of the door, and by the time Wonwoo whirls around someone has already come in. He looks to be about Wonwoo’s age, and he leans back against the door, fixing Wonwoo with a narrow, discerning gaze. His white-blonde hair is pushed back from his forehead and stands in stark contrast to the dark walls as well as his dark suit. Wonwoo looks him up and down and thinks he has no business seeming as formidable as he does—he doesn’t look evil, he doesn’t even look scary, it’s just that his presence in the room is so heavy Wonwoo swears he feels the atmosphere shift. He’s just so emphatically _there._ It doesn’t help that he’s strikingly attractive, and his eyes feel less like they’re looking at Wonwoo and more like they’re burning holes straight through him. It only serves to make Wonwoo even more frustrated.

“Afternoon,” he says, one eyebrow lifting. His eyes curve ever so slightly until there’s something like amusement on his face. “It’s Wonwoo, right?”

“Let me go,” Wonwoo says shortly, and the corners of the other man’s lips curl up just barely. He gives a silent huff of laughter, flicking a tiny speck of lint off one of the sleeves of his blazer. Jeweled rings sparkle from almost all of his fingers, catching the light as his hands move.

“You were _incredibly_ wasted, you know. Any mortal could have done anything to you, and you would have been in no position to stop them.”

Wonwoo clenches and unclenches his fists. This guy’s entire presence is setting him off, and he’s very annoyed that he can’t stop thinking about how handsome he is. “For future reference? Most people aren’t going to take kindly to being locked up.”

The other cocks his head at him, almost pouting, still amused. “It’s not every day I go out of my way to be this chivalrous, you know. You could show a little appreciation.”

“Consider it appreciated.” Wonwoo crosses his arms. “Let me leave.”

There’s a long stretch of silence as the two of them look at each other, holding each other’s eyes until he takes a breath and says: “You’ll be staying. Sorry.”

Wonwoo blinks, stunned for a second, then laughs out of sheer, cold disbelief. “And why would I do that?”

He pauses for a moment, seeming to weigh his answer. “It’s nothing personal.” He pushes off of the door and moves toward Wonwoo, shoes clicking slightly on the floor. His eyes lower, then drag slowly back up Wonwoo’s body, and Wonwoo tenses up to stifle a shiver, feeling even more restless in his own skin with those dark eyes on him. “An opportunity presented itself, so I took it. It’s not like I get a lot of you up-aboves falling into my lap.”

Up-aboves, Wonwoo repeats to himself, looking away. Up-aboves. No cell signal. He feels so suffocated. The boss...

The boss. Fuck. Of course. Of _course_.

Wonwoo raises his eyes again and his captor is smirking. The look on his own face must give away that he’s figured things out, because the other’s smile widens, all sharp white teeth and crinkling eyes, and it’s as blindingly gorgeous as it is infuriating. “Nice to meet you too,” he says.

Wonwoo’s mind is in overdrive, but he strangely feels a bit more in control now that he at least knows where he is, who he's dealing with. “You can’t keep me here. It’s kidnapping. It’s _illegal.”_

He— _Soonyoung,_ Wonwoo thinks; might as well call him by his name, since he knows it, of course he knows it, who _doesn’t_ know the name of the god of the Underworld—rolls his eyes. “You clearly spend too much time around mortals.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Their concept of legality hardly determines morality, especially for a god.”

“You don't think it's wrong to keep me here against my will? Even for a god?” He pauses. “Even for you?”

A slow grin spreads across Soonyoung’s face. “I have my reasons.” He takes a few more steps toward Wonwoo, bending forward slightly with his hands in his pockets and looking up to examine his expression carefully for a moment. He raises an eyebrow, looking down at the rest of him with similar attentiveness. His arms start to raise and Wonwoo flinches, making Soonyoung roll his eyes again—he reaches out, slower this time, and brushes Wonwoo’s shoulders off briskly, then pulls on the lapels of Wonwoo’s jacket, straightening it. Wonwoo watches him stiffly, and when he’s satisfied, Soonyoung looks up at his face again. “Chan will bring you some water.” He cocks his head to the side. “I think you’re wilting.”

With that, he turns and exits the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. The lock clicks, and that overpowering silence blankets the room again, finding Wonwoo feeling thoroughly terrified and disgustingly helpless.

He slowly sinks back down onto the bed, gripping the covers in his fists. At least he understands how terrible he feels now—even cooped up in his stupid sunroom he could at least get sunlight and fresh air, neither of which were in high supply in the fucking Underworld, and it’s incredibly disorienting sensing the earth all around him and above him instead of below.

This is no place for the god of spring.

He spends a few moments trying to discern how far down he is, but realizes quickly that it’s _overwhelmingly_ far and gives up, flopping backwards through the hangings. He glances at his phone again out of habit before remembering it doesn’t work, then folds his hands over it on his chest, taking a deep breath. Resignation starts to set in as he lies there, then more fear. He’s a prisoner in the Underworld. He’s a prisoner in the Underworld and he’s being kept here by the god of the Underworld. He’s a prisoner in the Underworld and he has no plan, no means of contacting anyone who could help him, and worst of all, no route of escape. He feels utterly alone.

Wonwoo looks around the room and laughs bitterly. He _is_ utterly alone.

No one comes by during the remainder of the day, save for Chan bringing him a stack of books to occupy himself with and a glass of water, which Wonwoo eyes suspiciously. He offers him food as well, which Wonwoo refuses: even mortals know if you eat food from the Underworld you’ll be trapped there. He doesn’t say that to Chan, though; he doesn’t say anything to Chan, just shakes his head and fixes him with the coldest glare he can muster.

Chan tries to convince him, but eventually his shoulders slump, and he groans, standing and throwing his arms up in defeat. “Fine, see if I care,” he says as he walks away. “You’re being a huge downer. The dead are more pleasant. Have fun starving.”

Wonwoo feels fairly justified in being a downer when he has no idea why he’s here, no inkling as to what need Soonyoung could possibly have of him, and can’t think of a scenario where it ends well for him.

...And if it did end well, his mother was going to be just unbearable. He can’t imagine the sea of I-told-you-so’s he’ll have to deal with from her, and for that matter, from his friends as well. He can practically hear Minghao now, laughing about how he snuck out of his own bedroom only to end up locked in someone else’s.

He doesn’t cry, because it would be a waste of time and energy.

He’s not sure how much of either he has left.

\---

Wonwoo passes two more days reading, searching every nook and cranny of his room for anything interesting, and denying food. He’s starting to go stir-crazy, he thinks, seeing no one but Chan. Of course, it turns out he’d rather have Chan than no one; he’s interesting enough to talk to, and at least breaks the monotony. Wonwoo learns he brings the souls of the dead to the Underworld, a task that seems much bigger and more daunting than Chan, but then, Wonwoo hasn’t yet been on his bad side. He suspects he should avoid it.

He also suspects he’s nearing it, considering the looks Chan gives him when he refuses to eat every time he offers him food.

On his fourth morning in the Underworld, Wonwoo is reading at the table when Chan comes to check in on him. “What’s to stop me from waiting by the door one day and clobbering you with one of these lamps?” Wonwoo asks as the door opens. “Or a candlestick? There are fourteen candlesticks in the closet. I’ve counted.”

Chan laughs. “Because everyone on the estate knows you’re here, and knows what to do if you try to get out. Not that you could. You wouldn’t make it down the hallway, even. I’m much stronger than I look, and Soonyoung has so many guards patrolling this place it’s stupid.”

Wonwoo looks at him for a second, standing with some effort. Not eating is starting to catch up with him. “Chan.”

“Yes?” He looks at Wonwoo in mild concern.

“Why am I here?” he asks, the fear he’s felt since waking up that first morning slipping into his voice for the first time. “What is he going to do to me? Why hasn’t he done it yet?”

“What?” Chan’s expression is genuinely confused, like he can’t conceive of his boss doing anything malicious. As if he didn’t _kidnap_ Wonwoo. “He’s not going to _do_ anything to you. You’re not in any danger, okay? You're a means to an end, that's all, and—look. I get that you don’t want to be here. But it could be a lot worse. It’s really not so bad. Soonyoung’s not _bad_. He’s just—”

“Misunderstood?” Wonwoo sneers. He’d heard stories, of course, of the wrath of the king of the Underworld, of his coldness, his ferocity. Truthfully, Wonwoo had never subscribed to the idea that ruling over the land of the dead meant he was evil by nature, but now—now he was entertaining the idea that everyone who feared and hated him was right.

Chan’s face turns serious, almost sad, and he swallows before answering. “I was going to say, he’s just trying to—” He glances at Wonwoo’s face, which is largely unimpressed, and sighs. “Whatever. Should I even offer you breakfast?”

He sits back down, silently, and Chan sighs, then leaves.

Wonwoo is still reading when there’s a knock on his door. He’s been awake for hours now, though he’s not sure what time it is—the battery on his phone had given out two days ago, and there’s a large grandfather clock in the room, but it’s stuck. He finds himself glancing at it every now and then anyway, but it’s always 7:16. He’s wondered (because there’s not much else to do) if maybe time passes differently here, or if the Underworld even has any sort of day/night cycle since there’s no sun, or if just being locked up underground is starting to make him insane. Maybe a bit of everything. In any case, it’s strange for someone to be knocking—Chan always just lets himself in, and it’s barely been any time at all since he left anyway.

“Come in,” Wonwoo calls, voice cracking from disuse and lack of hydration. He doesn’t look up from his book as the door opens, but he can tell it’s not Chan from the absence of his usual cheerful greeting. What he does hear are footsteps.

“Chan says you won't eat.” There’s a clatter in front of him as a tray is placed on the table: it’s food. Lots of it. Anything he could conceivably want for breakfast is here in front of him, and above it, looking vaguely annoyed, is Soonyoung. Wonwoo’s stomach growls—Chan had never actually brought food, just asked what he liked and told him the kitchens had everything. It hits him at once just _how_ hungry he is, and the smell of bacon has his mouth watering.

Wonwoo glances up at Soonyoung, then at the food, then goes back to his book. Soonyoung huffs, pulling out the chair on the other end of the table and sitting down. “You’re going to have to eat eventually.”

“How stupid do you think I am?” Wonwoo asks, setting his book aside with a sigh.

Soonyoung looks at him, confused for a second, then rolls his eyes. “Is _that_ what this is about?” He crosses one leg over the other. “You people will believe absolutely anything. You’re not going to be _trapped in the Underworld_ if you eat this,” he says, making air quotes around ‘trapped in the Underworld.’ “That’s just pomegranates, and you’ll notice,” he gestures toward the tray, “that there are none of those here.”

Wonwoo can’t believe he just saw the ruler of the shades use air quotes.

“I'm already trapped in the Underworld,” he says, and Soonyoung gives him a simpering grin.

“Not nearly as trapped as you could be.” He sounds a little like a child sassing off to their mother, but only for a second. “I’m trying to bargain for something here. What would be the point of taking you if I couldn't give you back?”

Bargaining for something. Wonwoo files that away for later. “You could be lying.”

Soonyoung gives him this incredulous, frustrated look, and Wonwoo almost laughs. “Why would I lie?” he says, shrugging and shaking his head.

“To keep me here, obviously.” It’s stupid and immature, but every momentary crack in Soonyoung’s steely, cool exterior spurs Wonwoo to keep pushing. Maybe if he’s annoying enough, Soonyoung will get fed up and just turn him loose.

“I told you, this entire endeavor is pointless if you can't leave.”

“There’s probably no _endeavor_ at all. You've probably been watching me from afar, just plotting when you could spirit me away.”

(In all actuality, Wonwoo believes Soonyoung. He’s just very, very entertained by how easy it is to irritate him.)

Soonyoung’s posture drops slightly and he rubs at his eyes. Wonwoo raises one eyebrow triumphantly. “Fuck _me_ , you are unbearable,” Soonyoung growls. “I’m keeping you here because it is _necessary._ Certainly not because I want to.”

Wonwoo smirks and picks up a piece of bacon. “Well, I hope you’re telling me the truth, or you’ll be stuck with me forever.” He takes a bite, and it’s delicious—he’s not sure if it’s because he hasn’t eaten in days, or because Underworld food actually does have some sort of enchantment. Too late now, he guesses.

Across from him, Soonyoung breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. I don’t need you wasting away and dying down here. As if the other gods need more reason to give me hell.”

“No pun intended?” Wonwoo says through a mouthful of food, and Soonyoung looks at him as if he’s heard that one a few too many times. “You can go, you know. I’m eating, aren’t I?”

“What were you reading?” he asks, instead of leaving or answering, and Wonwoo looks up from his plate. He’s leaning forward slightly, squinting at Wonwoo’s book to see the cover, then he looks at Wonwoo and—something about the way his face has softened, something about how it sounds like he’s genuinely curious, like now that Wonwoo’s cooperating slightly he wants to be _civil—_ just sets Wonwoo off.

“Why do you need me here?” Soonyoung’s face goes from interest back to neutral lightning fast. “Surely the god of the Underworld shouldn’t need to take hostages to get what he wants.” Wonwoo thinks he’s probably pushing his luck now—he’s right, judging by the subtle flare in Soonyoung’s nostrils.

He gives a sharp, sarcastic exhale of laughter. “How fantastic is your life up there that you’re _this_ desperate to get back to it?”

“It’s—” better than here, Wonwoo starts to say, but stops, because...is it? He’s just traded his mother’s enchantments for Soonyoung’s lock and key—is he that much worse off?

Soonyoung laughs. “That’s what I thought,” he sneers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, some of us have business to attend to.” He stands to leave, and Wonwoo looks at his back for a moment before speaking.

“How fantastic is _your_ life? Down here? All alone in the dark, with no one but the dead and the damned to keep you company?”

Soonyoung stops. It’s a few seconds before he turns around, and when he does he’s back in front of Wonwoo in an instant, leaning down close to his face. His hands grip the arms of Wonwoo’s chair and Wonwoo gives a quick intake of breath from the suddenness and the closeness; Soonyoung is even more gorgeous this close, and _much_ more intimidating. When he speaks his voice is low and it sends something through Wonwoo that he can’t define.

“There are far less comfortable places you could be sleeping, you know,” he says, looking Wonwoo in the eyes. There's ice in his voice and it makes Wonwoo shiver, but he doesn't break eye contact, and he’s about to respond when Soonyoung’s expression shifts, minutely, so small it’s barely, barely there.

He’s angry, obviously; Wonwoo thinks he might have been shaking with it had he a little less self control. There’s also something else, though—he’s not sure what, but he’s smart enough and he’s cracked Soonyoung just enough to see: there’s something else. It flickers in his eyes as he looks at Wonwoo, something softer than anger but still harder than fear, something that makes the determination in his gaze almost give way to desperation.

Interesting.

“Noted,” Wonwoo says, less steady than he would have liked. “Your _highness_.” His voice drips with disdain and Soonyoung’s eyes flash angry, darken even further. They stay that way, unmoving, neither willing to look away first, neither willing to break. Wonwoo can feel Soonyoung’s breath on his face and it ramps up his adrenaline, makes his heart hammer in his chest. “We can do this all day, Soonyoung. We’re both gods.” He hasn’t used Soonyoung’s name before. It feels good to say it, almost dangerous, and it makes him feel slightly less helpless, especially when Soonyoung’s eyes narrow nearly imperceptibly. It’s a small victory, but he’ll take what he can get.

Soonyoung’s lip curls and he stands up again. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but instead just turns and leaves, slams the door shut with enough force to make the dishes on Wonwoo’s tray of food rattle.

When he’s gone Wonwoo exhales a breath he feels like he’s been holding forever and tries to get his heartbeat under some semblance of control. His chest is heaving from the leftover intensity of the past couple of minutes, the air around him still crackling with it, and for the thousandth time since he woke up here he shakes his head and wonders how this can possibly be his life. When he drops his head into his hands and squeezes his eyes shut, Soonyoung’s face is still there, the ghost of his breath still lingering on Wonwoo’s cheeks, his nose, his lips.

Slowly, Wonwoo raises his head, swallowing hard, then clearing his throat. His mind is racing in a thousand different directions. He’s determined to calm himself down, to focus on the useful parts of that encounter instead of the parts where Soonyoung’s face was that close to his. Soonyoung is finally marginally less of a mystery to him, and Wonwoo needs to think about all of this, consider what it means, and he _wants_ to, but—

Well. Soonyoung’s face had been awfully, awfully close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your fave is problematic: me and cat  
> \- both way WAY too in love with hades!soonyoung


	3. Chapter 3

Soonyoung leans back against the black marble of the door and closes his eyes, the fury simmering underneath his skin threatening to break loose. It takes him a minute to calm; in his head, he can still see the stubborn set of Wonwoo’s jaw and the flush of red staining his cheeks. The nerve of the little weed, trying to upset Soonyoung in his own domain. Like his very life wasn’t in in Soonyoung’s hands. The insult, the sheer bravado, has his fingers curling into balls, and it takes every fiber of his being not to slam his fists into the wall behind him. It would not do to let his prisoner know how easily he’d dug into his skin.

He curses internally, before inhaling, willing his heart rate to slow. He can’t afford to be upset right before a meeting. Particularly this meeting. He’ll deal with this situation later.

He opens his eyes, slides his gaze to his left, where Chan is standing. “Not a word.”

Chan holds up his hands. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Soonyoung lets out an aggravated sigh that he hopes the thickness of the walls mask. He pushes off the surface, holds out a palm and waits for Chan to hand him his black blazer, the double breasted one with the deep purple lining and tiny opals edging the collar rim. He shrugs into it, and in the time it takes for him to push buttons into place and press the lapels flat, he manages to still his nerves, his heart rate.

He breathes once through his mouth, and when he lifts his head, his eyes are steel. He straightens his shoulders before he walks forward.

They’re almost at the end of the hall when he tilts his head at Chan, three steps behind him. “Have they arrived?”

Chan nods, once. “They have. We escorted them into the conference room, like you asked.”

“Alright. Good.” Soonyoung dismisses Chan with a wave of his hand, and Chan disappears into the shadows, the sound of a swinging keyring clinking behind him; he surmises that Chan is on his way to the garage to resume his duties for the day. Soonyoung takes a right at the next corner, adjusting the cuffs of his black silk shirt underneath his jacket sleeves as he walks up to the obsidian doors on the opposite wall. Fingers brush against the discreet panel on the frame, and the doors open silently for him to step through. He punches the button for the mezzanine, and clasps his hands behind his back as he waits for the elevator to sink even deeper into the earth.

When the doors open, he nods curtly at the guards on either side of the elevator frame before continuing towards his destination.

All things considered, Soonyoung’s palace isn’t bad. It could even be considered comfortable, if your idea of comfort included a lot of dark corners and shadowy doorways. A deep gray and silver baroque pattern painted most of the walls, and most of the lights were set to dim, but anyone who frequented the rooms—Soonyoung’s closest advisors and staff—would know that the couch cushions were deep and soft, and that the cool marble of most of the furniture was often warmed by a fire burning in a nearby hearth. The rich scent of leather would often waft from room to room, and there always seemed to be a shelf full of books whenever anyone turned around.

Soonyoung rounds the corner, through the doorway leading into the Bridge, a suspended path separating the east wing from the west wing, where he and most of the members of his circle conduct most of their business and affairs. The walkway opens up into a landing balcony that overlooks the front hall, a wide room barricaded by an intimidating two-storey marble door with a three-headed dog that looked like a mix between a boxer and a ten-foot tall mountain lion curled around the base of it. 

One of the dog’s heads lifts at the sound of Soonyoung’s footsteps, ears perking up, but it lowers again at his quiet little murmur of “not now.” Soonyoung feels a little guilty that he hasn’t given his pet a walk in a few days, delegating the task instead to Junhui, but he’s been preoccupied by his sudden guest.

Wonwoo rises again, unbidden, in his head, and he frowns automatically.

“Something wrong?”

Soonyoung’s head snaps up. Speak of the devil. Or rather, death himself. 

Junhui is leaning outside the door to Soonyoung’s throne room, the large archway the center of a row of offices reserved for his circle of advisors.

“What are you doing here? I thought you would be up on earth right now.”

Junhui shrugs. “I’m headed there.” He lifts his hand, smiles cheekily. “Forgot my phone. How’s our guest?”

The expression on Soonyoung’s face darkens. “Insufferable. But he’s eating, so at least he won’t die on us.”

“Ah,” Junhui says, nodding sagely before peeking into Soonyoung’s face to study his mood. “Are you alright? He seems to have you a little... rattled.”

Soonyoung raises an eyebrow at him, the tiniest bit of ire manifesting in the quirk of his mouth. “Do you not have somewhere else to be right now?”

“Right. I do. I’ll be on my way then, your highness,” Junhui replies cheerfully. He sweeps his gangly self into a little bow, and gives Soonyoung a little salute. “Say hi to Jihoon for me.”

He watches Junhui walk past him and through the doorway behind him, where Soonyoung assumes he will be taking the staircase down and out through the front. Sure enough, he hears Cerberus’ cheerful barks and Junhui’s jubilant greetings, before the heavy scrape of the front door opening and shutting echoes through the cavernous foyer.

Soonyoung lets out a little huff of breath to steady himself, thumbs twisting the rings around his fingers behind his back before he turns to the left, walking slowly to the end of the hallway where his conference room is located. It’s the middle of the day, so the offices he passes are empty of their usual inhabitants. He doesn’t need to look for them; if he concentrates hard enough, he can see Joshua, Jonghyun and Minhyun in the Judgment Meadows, flipping through files and delivering verdicts at their satellite office at the dividing of the road between the Isles of the Blest, Tartarus, and the numerous fields of eternal repose between them both. Chan is behind the wheel of his car, whistling to a mortal Top 40 tune while driving along the Acheron highway, narrating the sights he passes to the group of hundreds of souls squished in his backseat. Junhui passes Chan on his way out of the Underworld, his shiny black Lexus a stark contrast to Chan’s beat-up black Chevy on the opposite side of the freeway. Seungkwan, Vernon and Seokmin are somewhere on the premises, holed up in their giant room with the sky-high shelves containing millions and millions of spools of thread of varying lengths and colors, tapestries woven and unraveled in equal amounts.

They’re all Soonyoung’s people, and as long as they’re in his world—as long as anyone is in his world—he knows what they are doing. An interesting consequence of his dominion, such as it is.

(Wonwoo’s picking at a plate of soft scrambled eggs and toast. Not that he’s keeping track.)

He shakes his head slightly, as if to clear his thoughts of any images of Wonwoo. It would not do to give anything away. Especially to them.

He places his hands on the door handles, takes a second to gather himself, before pushing forward into the room.

Some time after Soonyoung had been born into his life as the god of the Underworld, he decided that the palace needed an upgrade. The previous inhabitant had expanded the grounds as a consequence of the numerous wars the world had experienced in such a short period of time, but his taste in interiors had been stuck in the garish American hippie aesthetic of his later years, and for Soonyoung, who valued the rapid development of the world above him, this meant that changes needed to be made, especially since the focal point of culture had shifted from the West to the East, and the East was always foremost in the pursuit of technological advancement.

As soon as he could, he commissioned Jinyoung—foremost of creators and the one whom mortals drew inspiration from when they sought to push the boundaries of invention—to re-design his west wing with top-of-the-line technology. By the time he had finished, every single room in the west half of Soonyoung’s palace had been outfitted with state-of-the-art gadgetry and a sleek modern look that pre-dated Silicon Valley’s minimalist designs by at least a decade.

The conference room was the pinnacle of Soonyoung’s endeavor—a room that was testament to the no-fuss, straight-to-the-point manner that Soonyoung ruled his realm by, even though the throne room was the more symbolic of his dominion.

A round table dominates the long, rectangular room, pitch-black and made of the hardest glass not even known yet to man. The glass doubles as a projector for the hologram images he and his circle use for particularly esoteric or complex reports or sessions. The central chair at the head of the room is slightly larger than the rest, and twelve other leather chairs fan out around the table from it. Giant screens are attached to the walls forming an illusion of space, the crystal clear images of various parts of the Underworld pieced together to look like a giant moving mural of misery around the room’s inhabitants. Currently the images being broadcast are of Chan beeping his horn, lightly telling the souls to exit to the left of his vehicle, and not to push.

Two men are seated at the table when he enters, and both look up as soon as he steps in, faces impassive and devoid of expression while waiting. Soonyoung tilts his head at them both, and hopes the smile on his face is as assured as he wants it to be. “Fellow bosses.”

The shorter of the two men raises a single eyebrow. “Something wrong?” He’s dressed in a deep blue suit, and his hair (light brown, like ocean silt) is swept away from his face. His hands are folded over the table, and he’s the picture of calm, even though Soonyoung knows that he is capable of terrible fury just like the seas that move inside him.

Soonyoung tries not to let his spine stiffen. “Nothing at all, Jihoon. Shall we begin?”

The other man leans forward, the light gray of his suit a stark contrast to the pitch-black of his hair. His gray eyes twinkle playfully and his mouth quirks as Soonyoung sinks into the large chair at the head of the table. “Anything new down here?”

“Not like you would care, Seungcheol,” Soonyoung replies smoothly. He eyes his two companions—brothers, really—carefully, and realizes that they are the people he trusts the least in the world. He shoots them both a casual grin. “Would either of you care for anything to eat? Drink? I think Kyungwon’s delivery of nectar just came in.”

“None for me,” Jihoon says, raising a hand dismissively.

“Me either,” Seungcheol says. “I don’t want to take too long down here.” He cocks his head at Soonyoung, teasing. “Unless you want to give me the Wi-fi password.”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “I told you wireless internet isn’t conducive here, thousands of feet underground. You would think you would remember that after twenty or so odd years of me telling you this.”

“Besides, we use glass fibre optics to access the internet.”

“Then give me access to that,” Seungcheol says, in a tone he’s convinced himself is charming. He taps his tablet, which had been placed on the table. “My tab is useless here and I can’t monitor what’s happening up above without it.”

“Such a hardship,” Soonyoung mutters under his breath.

Jihoon looks at him with dead eyes. Seungcheol lets out an exaggerated sigh. Soonyoung stews internally. Even though they all agreed to them, they all despised their monthly leader meetings; both Jihoon and Seungcheol hated going underground, Soonyoung felt too unnerved being up in Seungcheol’s cloud palace, and Seungcheol was never a big fan of water in general.

Still, peace brought about prosperity, and none of the leaders wanted to be the one to shake things up, even though they technically only held the position for about a few hundred years before new entities took over their roles after the conclusion of their lifetimes.

(At least, that was what everyone thought everyone thought. Soonyoung was not going to reveal his hand too early and dissuade them of the notion.)

“You’re a little touchy today, Soonyoung,” Jihoon notes. “It’s not our fault you drew the short end of the stick.”

“Your concern is noted, Jihoon,” Soonyoung says glibly. “By the way, Junhui says hello.”

Jihoon makes a face at that name. “He’s still going on about getting him that horse. And about how I should melt more ice caps for fun.”

“That does sound like fun, to be honest,” Seungcheol muses.

“Perhaps we should start on the agenda,” Soonyoung interrupts before Seungcheol gets too distracted. He was a mighty and powerful god but also one whose attention span could only be described as fleeting.

“There’s nothing wrong with a few niceties before we start,” Jihoon says, shrugging. He turns to Seungcheol. “How is Nayoung?”

“She’s fine,” Seungcheol says, eyes lightening up a little at the mention of his wife, the goddess of the home. “She keeps getting incensed over all these debates regulating access to women’s reproduction, but otherwise, she’s just stellar. How are things underwater then, Jihoon?”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Getting shittier and shittier. Everything gets dumped in my territory.”

“Hang in there,” Seungcheol says, encouragingly. “I really feel like the mortals finally get that they’re going to have to pay attention to both the sea and the sky if they know what’s good for them. ”

“Ha,” Jihoon snorts. “If only.” They turn to Soonyoung now, silent this whole time they spent talking.

“Nothing to report from the Underworld,” Soonyoung says, nonplussed. “Everyone here is still dead.”

Seungcheol is starting to look frustrated, but Jihoon stops him from reacting with a quick “let it go Seungcheol.” He looks at the other closely, before sighing.

“You’re right, Jihoon. This is a time for unity, not division.”

Soonyoung’s ears prick and he watches concern come over Seungcheol’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Seungcheol raises a hand. “Later. Let’s stick to the schedule first. I’ll start.”

All three of them go through their monthly reports without too much fuss. Seungcheol confesses his concerns about various chemicals affecting the world’s weather patterns and Jihoon responds with a quick summary of what waters have shown signs of toxicity. Both their reports only mattered to Soonyoung in terms of how natural occurrences affected human mortality, since he had no hold over the death of flora or fauna (those were the nature gods' problems), and as their talk went on, Soonyoung came to the conclusion that he would not be very affected at all by them.

After global warming and the oceans, discussions between the two gods turn to the state of human politics and affairs, the light and the dark of it, and not for the first time Soonyoung is struck with envy at how exciting life is in the mortal realm. Being stuck underground meant he would always be watching and waiting, never part of the action, condemned to dwell in the dirt and shadows, for he ruled over everything that was the very antithesis of life.

Not to be dramatic, but it was a shitty deal for him all around.

The only brief respites he had from the abject derision he held for his job were the times when he would frequent underground bars and clubs. Mortals would always dig deep into his earth and he would let them, protecting them from the dangerous fumes underneath the soil, ensuring that their pleasure was not interrupted by trivial things such as sulfur and carbon monoxide. He watched them from the shadows, enjoyed the music and the laughter and the revelry—it was the closest he would get to touching life without anyone recoiling in fear. 

It was during one of his midnight jaunts through the circuit that he sensed the aura of another god deep in his territory nearby, and curiosity outweighed caution when he moved into the light to see. And upon seeing, plan.

The opportunity was there, so he took it. It was as simple as that, no hard feelings. It's what he's told Wonwoo, it's what he tells everyone who knows. If everything turns out like he plans, no one would get hurt, and he would be a much happier individual.

Fate is not inescapable.

(No one was to know that he had watched Wonwoo move through the crowd that night, entranced by the way he looked, pale and beautiful, hooded eyes and sweat-slicked skin. He’d stopped, then, the cogs in his brain jarring when Wonwoo tossed another glass of whiskey back, the column of his throat moving with the swallow, a single drop trailing down his chin and disappearing into the narrow valley of his shirt collar.

He shook his head then, urged himself to not get distracted. To focus.)

“Soonyoung?”

“Yes?” Soonyoung curses himself for getting distracted. The other two look at him, mild concern on their faces.

“Are you feeling alright?” Seungcheol asks, and Soonyoung is annoyed because he knows that Seungcheol really wants to know if he is.

“I am fine,” he responds, slowly. “I just have some things on my mind. Where were we?”

“We’re about to discuss very important business,” Jihoon quips, clearing his throat. “Surely you’ve encountered some restless souls recently?”

Soonyoung rests his chin on his steepled hands. “I think the judges have mentioned one or two, but that’s nothing concerning or of note, really. One was babbling incoherently about evil, but some do when they die, especially violently.”

Seungcheol leans forward. “Something’s going on in Taewon’s territory.”

Soonyoung snorts. “Territory? Did they re-establish feudalism while I was down here and nobody told me?”

“He’s a gangster,” Jihoon supplies. He’s slouched in his seat but there’s a look in his eye that has Soonyoung feeling edgy. Not a lot of things perturb Jihoon, but this Taewon person seems to have done so. “He owns a hotel in Gangnam where he kills the guests. For fun.”

Now Soonyoung sits up straight in his chair. “That’s a direct violation of xenia.” He looks at Seungcheol for confirmation.

“I know,” Seungcheol sighs. “I don’t think he particularly cares for the ancient custom though. He doesn’t seem to be too bothered by it. But something has to be done, don’t you think?”

“Well, clearly,” Soonyoung muses. “But what do you need from me? Xenia is more your thing, not mine.”

“He’s gotten out of hand,” Seungcheol mutters. He leans back in his chair, tilts his head at Soonyoung. “We need you to do something. You, or one of your guys.”

At this, Soonyoung’s eyes darken. “Seungcheol, I understand the affront he’s caused you, and all of us,” he says solemnly. “But I welcome the dead. I do not cause it.”

“I'm not asking you to kill the guy, but he needs to be reminded to be kept in line.” Seungcheol stands at this, clearly already at wit’s end with the conversation and the underworld in general. He pockets his device, brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Jihoon here will do his part, as will I.”

Soonyoung looks at Jihoon, who shrugs as he gets up, getting ready to leave as well. “He’s messing with my horses too. Gambler.”

“That’s a language I understand,” Soonyoung says, smirking all of a sudden. He’s the last to get up, and he watches his colleagues make their way to the exit with curious eyes. This Taewon character must be a piece of work to get two out of the three major gods of the world this riled up. “I can ask Junhui to look into it.”

Jihoon makes a face at the sound of the name. “The last time Junhui and I worked together, there was a famine and things did not end up well.”

“Things usually don’t, where death is involved,” Seungcheol says, laughing. He looks at Soonyoung, still standing at the head of his table. He gives him a friendly wave. “We’ll see ourselves out, then. ‘Til next month, brother.”

Jihoon nods silently at him, before following Seungcheol through the door.

Soonyoung waits a beat or two, until he senses the two heading to the departure area where their vehicles were stored. He sinks back down into his chair, and lets out a sigh of displeasure. 

One day, those two would give him the respect he deserved.

Until then… he looks to the side, and spots the crystal decanter of nectar-infused scotch in the corner of his room. He stands up and makes his way there to pour himself a glass. Until then, he will bide his time. There’s plans to set in motion, and he needs to ensure that all of them run smooth. If it’s the last thing he does.

He downs the entire glass in one swallow, stares down at the decanter and contemplates drinking more. 

(The image of a single drop of caramel-colored liquid trickling down a sharp clavicle, and the intense and sudden desire to trace the path it carved with his mouth convinces him that he’s had enough for the day. He winces, shakes his head.)

Wonwoo was the key, and he’ll be damned if he lets distractions get in the way of something he, and every entity he’s ever been, has wanted for centuries.

He sets the glass down, and leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of world-building, not enough Soonwoo. I get it. Me too, same.
> 
> Everyone's mythical assignation is pretty apparent but if anything is unclear or if you have questions, leave a comment and we'll get back to you right away!!
> 
> Also you can leave us questions at our curiouscats: [cat](https://curiouscat.me/allthatconfetti) & [amber](https://curiouscat.me/snwu) :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please let us know what you think in the comments! They're super great and appreciated and we are nutty about this AU so we will probably talk your ear off. Thank you so much for reading!!


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